I
Walking à trois on Crosby Sands
He left us talking two to the dozen
and went for paddle
in Wellington boots.
The tide was coming in,
and before we could say,
‘hey, you’ll get wet’,
he’d removed all his clothes
(and the Wellington boots)
and stood buff naked
in the incoming sea.
The water swirled about his legs
caressed the hairs, the golden hairs
that still stood on his still trim calves,
his freckled thighs, and all the way up
to his bottom.
I felt I knew his bottom well,
and well enough to have placed
my hand between its cheeks.
But for Gloria . . .
If she was embarrassed
I’d never have known.
I suppose she’s seen rather
more male bottoms than me.
‘He’s just larking’,
she said, and laughed.
But as the tide came in
he was too far out . . .
to be larking.
II
A Water Polo team
5 Aside
winter training
in the autumn cold
good for the muscle tone
Malcolm threw the ball too far
it’s just a dot in the distance now
floating out to the shipping lane
past the windmills down the Welsh coast
next stop the Irish Sea
III
Oh the seductive tide
rolling across the shallow beach
hiding the creased and puckered sand.
Shadows and reflective light
flowed about him,
a mesmeric display of lateral forms,
as his reflection shimmered black
on the grey, brown, grey-white water.
He’d shaved his head
as if in benediction for the sea’s coming kiss
that would surely embrace him, take him
naked into its cold, cold clasp.
IV
Sketchbook in hand
she willed this standing ****
back into her imagination.
So long ago now
on that distant shore
in the opposite hemisphere,
by a blue blue sea,
And so very aroused
by the thought of that stony
wet nakedness beside her,
let her hand tremble
on the ****** page
as she saw his fingers
stretch out and touch
the incoming tide.
V
I watched him
time and again, time and forever,
too far out for me to touch.
His bold shoulders,
his well-muscled back,
from dawn to dusk
he was ever before me,
letting the water lap and kiss,
fold and flow between his legs;
up, up then over his hips:
to cover his spine, to stroke his neck.
I had to imagine his face of course,
being turned away from my outward gaze.
So I sent him my eyes, my ears,
my nose, my mouth and then
a cry from my heart:
‘I love you so, I love you so.’
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
I
Walking à trois on Crosby Sands
He left us talking two to the dozen
and went for paddle
in Wellington boots.
The tide was coming in,
and before we could say,
‘hey, you’ll get wet’,
he’d removed all his clothes
(and the Wellington boots)
and stood buff naked
in the incoming sea.
The water swirled about his legs
caressed the hairs, the golden hairs
that still stood on his still trim calves,
his freckled thighs, and all the way up
to his bottom.
I felt I knew his bottom well,
and well enough to have placed
my hand between its cheeks.
But for Gloria . . .
If she was embarrassed
I’d never have known.
I suppose she’s seen rather
more male bottoms than me.
‘He’s just larking’,
she said, and laughed.
But as the tide came in
he was too far out . . .
to be larking.
II
A Water Polo team
5 Aside
winter training
in the autumn cold
good for the muscle tone
Malcolm threw the ball too far
it’s just a dot in the distance now
floating out to the shipping lane
past the windmills down the Welsh coast
next stop the Irish Sea
III
Oh the seductive tide
rolling across the shallow beach
hiding the creased and puckered sand.
Shadows and reflective light
flowed about him,
a mesmeric display of lateral forms,
as his reflection shimmered black
on the grey, brown, grey-white water.
He’d shaved his head
as if in benediction for the sea’s coming kiss
that would surely embrace him, take him
naked into its cold, cold clasp.
IV
Sketchbook in hand
she willed this standing ****
back into her imagination.
So long ago now
on that distant shore
in the opposite hemisphere,
by a blue blue sea,
And so very aroused
by the thought of that stony
wet nakedness beside her,
let her hand tremble
on the ****** page
as she saw his fingers
stretch out and touch
the incoming tide.
V
I watched him
time and again, time and forever,
too far out for me to touch.
His bold shoulders,
his well-muscled back,
from dawn to dusk
he was ever before me,
letting the water lap and kiss,
fold and flow between his legs;
up, up then over his hips:
to cover his spine, to stroke his neck.
I had to imagine his face of course,
being turned away from my outward gaze.
So I sent him my eyes, my ears,
my nose, my mouth and then
a cry from my heart:
‘I love you so, I love you so.’
These poems were written about Anthony Gormley's Another Space - an installation of one hundred life-size sculptures of naked men spread out across Crosby beach near Liverpool, UK.
http://www.sefton.gov.uk/around-sefton/antony-gormleys-another-place.aspx
The poems all make reference in one way or another to Stevie Smith's celebrated poem Not Waving But Drowning.
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